


On Your Shoulders

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: Fingolfin considers what he has always wanted from his older brother.Written for NaNoWriMo 2017.





	On Your Shoulders

His heart lurched in his chest when he saw his brother - his half-brother, as he was constantly reminded - walking down the hallway with his firstborn son on his shoulders, showing the boy the paintings in the hallway to their father’s council chamber.

It was nearly time for dinner, and Fingolfin knew that he was coming. It was an uncomfortable situation whenever he came, considering his half-brother’s complete and utter lack of respect for his entire family, but he had learned long ago that it would be better for him to simply wait and observe rather than try to get involved.

But the way he held his little son aloft, the redheaded boy pointing eagerly at everything and receiving explanations in a tone of voice Fingolfin did not know Fëanor possessed, for it utterly lacked rudeness, was almost too much of a blow to take. It was a harsh reminder that Fingolfin himself had once been young like this, and he had desired his brother’s affection more than anything else, only to get rebuffed time and time again.

Fëanor had always been too busy for him, at first. He hadn’t understood why he was so dedicated to his crafts, to his language work and smithing, when he was a prince and could let others do that work for him. Whenever he tried to interrupt, whether to ask a simple question or to try to engage him in a child’s game, Fëanor had scoffed, telling him he was busy, and often had not even turned around to look at him.

For a while, Fingolfin had thought it was because of the work itself, that it had been too taxing for Fëanor to concentrate on the work and talk to him at the same time, but he soon discovered that even when his half-brother appeared to be doing nothing, like when he walked in the hallway or got ready for dinner, he was still unavailable.

It had hurt, as a child, and it still hurt to this day, although he had gotten much better at hiding it. He no longer solicited his attention, and when Fëanor spoke to him in his usual rude manner, he tried his best to ignore it. He counted in his head, sometimes challenging himself to see how high he could count before Fëanor would give up and go away.

Fëanor had told him far too many times that he was not his true brother, that they shared a father but nothing else, even though they looked so similar. When he asked his mother (who Fëanor was all too eager to tell him was just his mother, for his own was far superior), she told him that their family had been split many years before, and was likely to never come together.

Even so, he wished for the relationship. He wanted to be able to tell his older brother of his successes and failures, to rely on him for advice and to ask him questions. He was so smart, so accomplished, even at such a young age, and yet, every time he was around Fingolfin, he seemed to completely shut down, leaving only hatred behind. He turned into a vengeful creature, avenging the wrongs done to his mother, although now that both brothers were grown, he had hoped that they would be able to put this conflict aside. As usual, in Fëanor’s eyes, Fingolfin was wrong.

It was, thus, very odd to see Fëanor being so affectionate with a child. Yes, Nelyo was his own son rather than a hated half-brother, but it still pained him to see how kind he was with the boy. His name itself was an affront to Fingolfin, implying that he was not the third male of Finwë’s line, and in fact, that he did not exist at all - and, of course, the name had been chosen with purpose, and he still recalled how Fëanor had smiled at him when he had announced the name for the first time. It was how he had always felt around Fëanor, like he was so much lesser in every way. He did not have Fëanor’s bright mind or his brilliant ideas, nor his father’s favoritism, nor his birthright as High Prince of the Noldor.

But he wanted none of that. All he had wanted, as a child, was to be lifted on his brother’s shoulders like he lifted Nelyo now, and shown the world, as though they both knew they could reach higher heights together.


End file.
